Chapter 8 — The Gala (or How Not to Survive a Luxury Event Gracefully)
"In high society, dignity is just confidence in heels."
The Grand Aurelia Hotel glittered like a jewel box under a thousand lights. Cameras flashed in bursts of white fire as the Bentley rolled to a stop.
Arielle took one steadying breath, smoothed the violet silk at her hip, and stepped out—immediately tripping on the hem of her dress.
The world gasped.
Her heel caught for a single, horrifying second before a strong hand caught her elbow. Damian, of course—expression immaculate, grip firm, voice low enough for only her to hear.
"Careful," he murmured, amusement flickering behind his calm. "We wouldn't want to start the night with you in the headlines for assaulting gravity."
She straightened, smiling at the cameras like nothing happened. "Maybe I wanted the extra publicity."
"Next time," he said dryly, "warn your dress first."
The photographers, oblivious to their private exchange, ate it up—"Mr. Valen and his mysterious partner!" "That color looks divine on her!" "They're perfect together!"
Inside, the ballroom was a cathedral of light—crystal chandeliers, soft jazz, waiters balancing champagne like choreography. A floral arch framed the staircase, petals drifting as if scripted.
Damian led her through the crowd, nodding politely to investors and royals alike. Arielle matched his poise until a waiter passed with a tray of hors d'oeuvres.
"Lobster canapés?" he offered.
She reached for one—then realized too late it was balanced on a champagne flute. The entire tray wobbled, spun once in slow motion, and showered three dignitaries in glittering droplets of rosé.
Gasps. A violinist hit the wrong note.
"Oh no …" Arielle whispered.
Damian closed his eyes briefly. "And here I was thinking you couldn't top the entrance."
But when he looked up, the investors were laughing, charmed by her horror and quick recovery. Arielle grabbed a napkin, apologizing gracefully, making everyone smile. By the end of it, one of the drenched dignitaries was declaring her "the most refreshing woman in this building."
"See?" she whispered as they moved away. "Public relations—handled."
Damian's lips twitched. "You terrify me."
They circled the ballroom arm in arm, a picture of controlled chaos wrapped in couture. A reporter intercepted them.
"Mr. Valen! Miss Monroe! A quick photo for Society Affairs?"
Arielle smiled sweetly. "Of course." She turned slightly—just as a nearby waiter popped a bottle of champagne. The cork flew across the room like divine comedy, striking Damian's shoulder.
He didn't flinch. Of course he didn't.
"Should I assume the universe disapproves of your composure?" she teased.
He exhaled through his nose. "If it weren't you, I'd have this entire event evacuated."
"Too bad it is me."
They posed anyway—her laughter barely contained, his smile dangerously real. When the flash went off, for one perfect heartbeat they looked like every rumor wished them to be: unstoppable, magnetic, impossibly compatible.
Later, as the orchestra shifted to a waltz, Damian extended his hand. "Dance?"
She blinked. "You hate waltzes."
"I hate being predictable more."
So she took it.
The crowd parted, the marble floor gleamed, and the two of them moved as if the chaos had never existed. Her hand fit his; her laughter softened; his gaze lingered longer than necessary.
"Admit it," she said softly. "You enjoyed tonight."
He leaned in just enough for his breath to brush her ear. "Enjoyed? No. Survived—barely."
She laughed, genuine and bright, echoing through the chandeliered room.
When the song ended, applause rippled. They bowed slightly, professionalism restored, hearts traitorous.
As they stepped off the floor, Damian murmured, "For someone who swore this would stay professional, you make it… entertainingly difficult."
Arielle smiled up at him, eyes glimmering. "That's not in the contract clause yet."
He looked down at her, the chaos of the night reflected in the faintest, rarest smile. "Then perhaps it should be."
Xoxo Eloura 😘😍